Flowers for the Dead (22 page)

Christmas: not something Laura has bothered thinking about. But given her vow to make more effort with life, she supposes she had better try, tempting though it is to do her usual trick and spend the entire time curled up in her duvet crying about everything she has lost.

She makes herself sound cheery, chatting about ideas for presents. But when she puts the phone down and the silence crowds in on her again she has only one thought.

She is not convinced sleepwalking is to blame for the strange goings on.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

~ Bird’s Foot Trefoil ~

Revenge

FOURTEEN YEARS AGO

“Go on, you should have a do,” Sara goaded. Her eyebrows had a spiteful curve to them, but her mouth smiled.

“It’s, err, not really me…” Adam started, looking fretful.

“It’ll do you good! It’s the perfect opportunity to make new friends.”

“Your mother’s right. Cut loose, Son, have some fun,” his father readily agreed, as he wandered from the room. Sara watched him go, then pinched Adam painfully on his inner arm and laughed.

“You, have a party? Who would come? You have no friends, no one who likes you, you’re useless, socially inept, a pariah,” she chuckled. Sometimes, even now, she could not help herself.

“Well, there’s s-six months to go until my eighteenth. We don’t need to w-worry about it yet.” Adam could see Sara was about to add more, so changed tack. “Anyway, it’s your eighteenth wedding a-a-anniversary tomorrow, what are you two doing?”

“We’re not doing much tomorrow, but we’re going to that new restaurant in town on Saturday,” his mother preened. It already had a reputation for being impossible to get a table at, so Sara was now keen to boast to anyone and everyone about her coup. Adam’s plan worked and she stopped talking about his birthday party. Eventually, he was able to slip outside to clean his car.

Soon the Ford Fiesta car Adam had received from his parents for his seventeenth birthday was covered in suds, followed by a haze of wax. Despite the December cold, he was warm as he worked, and the perpetual motion of the chamois leather moving in a figure of eight helped clarify his thoughts.

He knew it was now or never: it was time to put his plan into motion. But he was wondering if there was any way he could save his father; after all, he might be a bloody idiot, but he was basically a decent man.

As he buffed the wax to a high sheen on his new car, Adam pondered. For a long time now he had been angry with the man for not protecting him. Had damned Graeme for always going on about how stupid criminals were, yet not being bright enough to notice what was going on under his nose. But people are quick to point out the flaws in other’s lives while so rarely seeing their own lives with such clarity, Adam had often noted. Apparently his father could see criminals everywhere but was blind to the sadist he was married to.

He might realise what his son had done though.

A flicker of irritation crossed Adam’s face as his reflection appeared through the thin mist of wax on the bonnet. That decided him. Yes, it was a shame his father had to go, but he was necessary collateral damage. Adam could not risk that, if he only killed Mother, for once in his life Graeme might twig what was happening in his family.

Besides, he liked to think of his plan as something of a homage to his father. It was good to know that in the end, Adam would not be a disappointment to him, but instead would create the perfect double murder.

The teenager hunkered down by his tyres and started rubbing black boot polish into them; a trick to make them look darker, and the car even better. When he had first asked for the motor as a present, he had had high hopes of it giving him the means of disposal for his parents.

His plans had come a long way since then.

Brush flying back and forth, he smirked to himself, remembering the hours he had spent on researching how to rig a car crash that would look like an accident. Under the guise of learning all about car mechanics, he had wasted hours discovering how to keep cars safe…or not.

Every angle had been considered. Cutting the brake pipe on his mother’s car had been his first thought, but that would be too obvious to accident investigators; he knew that from his father. So Adam had instead tried to find a way of making it look as though it had corroded naturally. He had developed a plan that involved corroding both the pipe and the brake discs using acid – but then rejected it because there were far too many variables. There was simply no way to guarantee when the brakes would fail, and therefore no way of knowing whether his parents would definitely be killed.

Then he had realised he was over-complicating things. There was a much easier way of dispatching of his mother and father.

Stepping back, he looked at his gleaming car. Although it had not given him the means to murder, as he had initially hoped, it had been the right thing to ask for it and driving lessons as a final gift. Once he had passed his test, he would be able to drive himself around, a definite plus as he would soon be on his own.

Suddenly he noticed an old nest that must have blown down from a tree the night before. The sight seemed to cheer him even more. Carefully, he picked it up and carried it to a safe place, a spring in his step so marked he could almost have been skipping.

He was even whistling as he jumped into the car, attempting Britney Spears’
Hit Me Baby One More Time
, a big hit with his mother and seemingly everyone that year. A jangly version was playing at the supermarket while he shopped for ingredients for the surprise anniversary meal he had planned for his parents. Their last supper.

The couple spent all of the following day out doing Sara’s favourite thing in the world: shopping. It was the perfect eighteenth anniversary present for her. By the time they returned, Adam was waiting for them with a big smile on his face.

“I’ve a surprise for you both! Follow me,” he urged.

The pair exchanged curious glances as they followed him to the sitting room they did not generally use; the one Sara wanted to turn into a cinema room. Adam gave them a grin, then opened the door…

Sara gasped. Gently twinkling lights festooned the room, transforming it into a fairy tale grotto. The luxurious red and gold curtains were drawn to shut out the freezing cold night and make the room cosy. Dozens of red roses decorated Ada’s old dining table and other surfaces, and nestled in between were rose-scented candles that filled the air with heady perfume. The table was set for two, and on the plates, steaming gently, was sausage casserole – the first thing Adam had ever cooked for them.

“Surprise!” he grinned. “I knew you wouldn’t look in this room, that’s why I chose it to set everything up.”

“It looks lovely!” Sara said.

“What a great surprise! Proud of you, son.” Graeme clapped Adam on the back. His son felt a mixture of happy and sad at the compliment. It would be the last he would ever receive from him.

“Bit chilly in here though, Adam…” added Sara, shivering.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Stupid idiot! I forgot. I was so busy trying to get everything so perfect, I forgot to put the fire on!”

“Don’t worry about it, Son, don’t worry.”  Graeme walked over and lit the gas, the flame burning a cheery canary yellow.

“Look, I put your wedding photos out.” Adam gestured to the mantelpiece. In pride of place were a myriad of framed photographs of their big day. He snatched one up so they could both see.

Snow lay on the ground in the picture, the bride’s white wedding dress making her almost invisible. Beside her stood Adam’s father in formal military dress, standing to attention. From the stance of the other people Adam could guess who were army friends and who were civilians. Sara held a bouquet of blood red roses in front of her to hide her pregnant belly. As Adam looked, the bouquet seemed to spread, a blot that was growing as the bride’s life leaked away, her unborn child tearing her from the inside out…

The moment passed. The picture was normal again as Adam handed it to his parents. They pored over it, fond smiles on their faces. His father looked up.

“You’re growing into a fine young man,” he said, hazel eyes identical to Adam’s twinkling with emotion. Adam wondered if somehow he knew, and was saying goodbye; he liked to think so.

“Well, have a lovely meal,” the teenager said finally. He reached over and clicked on the iPod station; Frankie Goes To Hollywood crooned
The Power of Love.

“We had our first dance to this,” said a delighted Sara.

Adam gave a knowing demure. “There’s Death By Chocolate for dessert, it’s hiding away in the sideboard, when you’re ready. I’m leaving you two to it, don’t want to crash the romance!”

“Are you sure?” Graeme checked. “You’d be welcome. Looks like you’ve cooked enough to feed an army – and I should know!”

“Yeah, I want you two to have a great night, just the two of you. Besides, watching my parents get mushy is a bit…”

“Say no more,” Graeme winked, taking Sara’s hand. They all laughed, and as Adam made his way upstairs he felt it was the perfect close to their relationship.

In his room, he put on some classical music full blast, safe in the knowledge that no one would be around soon to tell him to turn it down or listen to something less depressing.

To the strains of
Le Miserere
he practised his sad face; he had to get the expression right for the police later. It was difficult to fight the urge to smile though, knowing that two floors down his parents were dying.

He wondered if Sara would notice the tablecloth he had used. It was one of Gran’s. It was she who had embroidered the elegant pattern flowing around the edge in golds, reds and oranges. As a child it had made him think of a phoenix flying through the air, leaving a flaming con trail. He knew the tablecloth would get up his mother’s nose, and it made him snigger that on her last night on this earth she would be reminded of the woman she hated most.

Downstairs, Sara had indeed noticed the tablecloth and suffered a moment of irritation, but as Graeme had been busy flattering her at the time she had not been too bothered. Both were full and sluggish after their meal – she had to admit, her son really could cook. That chocolate dessert really had been to die for.

“Shall we take the wine to the sofa?” she giggled. She stood up and stumbled slightly, but Graeme caught her by the elbow and laughed. “It’s gone straight to my head. How much have we had?”

“Umm,” her husband frowned. “Two bottles. Not much, really. And here’s a third!”

“You’re slurring!” she squealed in delight.

Still snickering, they carried the glasses and remaining wine to the sofa. Another couple of sips and they were kissing like the teenagers they had been when they met. But instead of getting more amorous, they grew sleepier. Sara lay her head on Graeme’s chest and he grunted in amusement as he realised she had nodded off. He was exhausted himself, now he thought of it. He would close his eyes, just for a moment…

Adam glanced at the clock in his bedroom and wondered what was happening downstairs. He was desperate to sneak a peek, but knew he could blow the entire plan if he gave in to temptation.

To take his mind off things, he put on a sad dvd so that he could compare devastated looks with those of the actors. No one could accuse Adam of not being thorough in his preparation, he had been doing this for months now. The exertion must have been getting to him though, as although he sobbed through
Truly, Madly, Deeply
, he almost cried himself to sleep halfway through
City of Angels
.

He glanced at the clock: it was two in the morning. Time for him to get the next part of the plan in place, otherwise the consequences for his actions could be terrible indeed.

Slipping downstairs, he eased the wedge out from under the door, which he had placed there, just in case, when he had left the room hours earlier. The air inside the room was heavy and made him cough as he ran over to the gas fire and turned it off. He flung open all the windows. Finally, he walked over to the sofa.

His parents lay full-length on it. Sara’s head lay on Graeme’s chest, and his arms were wrapped around her. Adam felt for a pulse, and was reassured when he found nothing.

“Sorry, Dad,” he whispered, but comforted himself with the knowledge that as loathsome as his mother was, his father had thought the world of her. He had died holding the woman he loved, and that had to be a good thing.

The key to the perfect crime scene, Adam had come to realise after years of tuition at his father’s knee, was to really believe the story as he was staging it. Only then could one sell it. With that in mind, he did exactly as he would have done if he had not planned this little scene: he gave his parents CPR. It was far too late to work, of course, but it made things look more realistic. He only did it for a couple of minutes, then ran to the phone – he ran because then he would sound out of breath and panicky, as he knew he should. He considered himself something of a method actor.

“Am-am-ambulance, p-p-p,” he huffed, unable to get out the phrase. He let the stammer grip him; it would sound good if anyone listened to the automatic recording later on.

The ambulance and fire brigade arrived at the same time ten minutes later. Both screeching up, siren blaring, blue lights blazing intermittently. Adam’s face was blotchy, eyes red with tears, as he rushed to greet them – he had been thinking of another death in that house to get him so worked up. How he missed his gran. Finally free to grieve for her properly after a year and a half of bottling it up, he found tears welling easily.

“They’re in h-here,” he managed with effort.

“All right, son.” A fireman held him back. Chiselled face, straight back, efficient manner that immediately let everyone know he was in charge: he reminded Adam of his father. “You think there was a gas leak, right? Did you turn the fire off?”